


These Little Twists of Time

by nightfalltwen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Department of Mysteries, F/M, Time Travel, Time Turner, Unspeakables, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfalltwen/pseuds/nightfalltwen
Summary: Sometimes it is the job of Unspeakables to do things that are a bit untoward...  so long as there are no attachments in the end.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aleysiasnape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleysiasnape/gifts).



> Written as a gift for the **Smutty Claus** fic exchange on Livejournal. This is a break from the normal things that I write and it was quite the thrilling challenge. Special thanks goes to my stalwart cheerleader, **cryptaknight** for sticking by me and keeping me going to the end.

**1st November 1981**

"We have the Auror."

Unearthly screams ring out from the floor below.

"Your wife is too eager.  He will tell us nothing if he's dead."

"No one asked for your opinion, Barty.  Make yourself useful and find out from your father where the wife is."

Rabastan appears to an argument between his brother and the son of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.  He isn't surprised by the clashing of wills.  They don't like Barty and Barty doesn't like the Lestranges.  It's just another verse to the same tired song.  Barty vanishes with a snarl and another scream is heard below.

Rodolphus points a finger at him, looking more unhinged than usual.  "Where were you?!"

Rabastan steps back, but answers honestly.  His brother always knows when he's lying.  "Finishing up in bed.  Your owl only just arrived."

"The Dark Lord is _gone_."

***

**31st October, 1981**

She's new to the Cauldron.  No one would forget that unruly mass of hair and determined expression, least of all him.  New is always interesting and he's tired of the same dull women in the same dark tavern, looking at him with a mixture of fear and intrigue.  Her glance is not fearful, but almost challenging.  And he likes it.  Downing his drink, he signals to Tom for two more and carries the pair of tumblers in one hand, setting one down in front of her before he takes a place in the empty chair across.  She drops the pendant she'd been holding under her blouse and watches him with intent, brown eyes.

"You look out of place," he says, kicking his feet up to rest his heels on the table beside them.  His boot bumps against a soup bowl and before the wizard eating from it can protest, Rabastan carefully nudges up his sleeve to show off a blackened mark across his forearm.

"I'm in the exact right place," she says, reaching for the glass.  "This time."

"Wrong one last time?"

"In a way," she answers.  

Her fingertip travels around the rim of the glass before she picks it up, never breaking eye contact.  He leans forward and touches his glass to hers; the clink is lost in the din of the crowd.  The evasive answer she provides both annoys and intrigues him.  Rodolphus would already be demanding greater answers with Bellatrix egging him on to use a curse or two to loosen the woman's tongue.  Rabastan has always felt he has more restraint than his brother.  Most of the time the restraint pays off.

"Beauxbatons?" he asks, tilting his head.

"Durmstrang," she says with a slight dart of the eyes.  

He's sure she's lying, but he can't place her face at Hogwarts.  She looks too _soft_ to have attended the icy school in Eastern Europe.  He expects he will have the truth of her by the end of the night.

***

**1 November, 1981**

The strand of drool hanging from Auror Longbottom's chin just barely brushes the front of his chest.  Rodolphus has broken the man, leaving what's left of his mind in an unfixable mess.  They will get no answers from him.  The wife is still fighting against Bellatrix's curses, screaming for her whelp of a son, her husband, her family.  She begs.  She sobs that she knows nothing.

Rabastan, bored, keeps watch under the dim light over the front door.  He rubs his arm idly; the dark mark holds no underlying tug.  Whatever string tied them to Lord Voldemort, it seems to have been severed.

The few owls they've intercepted carry letters of celebration.

A flash of light streaks across from the street and the ropes, that suddenly appear, bind him tight.  He hits the ground hard, but before he can shout for his brother, the aurors have him silenced and invade the house.

***

**31st October, 1981**

There's no hesitation in her kiss, her mouth yielding to his easily enough.  She tastes of smoke and vanilla, hints of the whisky they had been drinking all night.  He sweeps his tongue along her lip, savouring the sweetness of it all.  Part of him begs to taste other parts of her and see if they're just as sweet as her lips.  If she were any other tart from the _Cauldron_ , he'd waste no time hiking up her skirt and pushing apart her legs, but he has yet to solve the mystery of her.

Her hands flatten against his shoulders and push.  

"My name... " She sucks in a breath, face flushed.  "You need to know my name."

"Do I?" Rabastan's hand slips under her blouse, up her ribcage.  His lips curl in wicked realization.  No bra.  He watches her eyes darken slightly as his thumb circles slowly around the stiff nipple.

Surprisingly, she doesn't stammer.  Instead another determined expression appears on her face and her hand, that he hadn't been concerning himself with, is tugging down the zip to his trousers and plunging beneath the fabric to glide purposefully over his hardening cock.  He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering.  She's bold; he'll give her that.  She leans forward and her warm breath slides over his earlobe.

"I expect you'll be screaming it loudly at some point."  Her hand moves again, squeezing as it pumps along the length of him.  "Granger.  Hermione Granger.  Remember it."

Rabastan growls the name under his breath and he fumbles, actually _fumbles_ for his wand.  In an instant the environment changes from the cool night air and damp mist that is ever present in late October London to a room with thick walls and heavy drapes and a fire crackling in the fireplace.  Cosy is not a word Rabastan uses to describe his room at the Lestrange manor, for obvious reasons when one lives in a pureblood household with a sister-in-law like Bellatrix, but compared to the chill of the evening, it comes close to being just that.  Cosy.

They leave a trail of clothing from the door to the bed.  Some of it is torn, impatient fingers tugging too hard at the seams, and all of it is rumpled and discarded.  Rabastan gives a cursory glance to the silk cords attached to either bedpost but decides to save those for later, instead pushing her back onto the bed.  Hermione begins to shift back so that there's room for him, but he stops her, curling his hands under her bent knees and pulling her across the sheets until her arse is perched on the edge of the mattress.

"Tell me your secrets," he says, dropping to his knees and pushing her knees apart until she pinned and on display.

"What secrets?  I don't have any—" Hermione gasps, the words now replaced by a soft moan as his fingers trace purposefully along the slick flesh between her legs.

"We all have secrets," he says, determined to have them out of her by the end.  

His fingers are replaced by his tongue and the sound that she makes is something he never gets tired of hearing from women he brings into his bed.  Her fingers rake through his hair, fisting tightly in the strands and pressing his head.  He obliges the hint and finds her clit, sucking on it at first before swirling his tongue around it.  Her hips start to move and he puts an end to that, pressing his palms to her thighs and holding her tight.

When she comes, he slides his tongue inside of her to feel the muscles flutter around it and when the orgasm begins to subside, Rabastan gets to his feet.  He keeps her at the edge of the bed, legs splayed and positions his cock before thrusting his hips forward and sliding into her.  Her body still flutters and he can feel the wolfish smile start to tug at his lips.  Grabbing her wrists, he pins them to the bed and draws his hips back before snapping them forward.

"Tell me," he groans as she plants her heels into the backs of his knees and manages to rise up to meet his thrusts.  "Everyone has secrets.  Are you Order?"

"I'm not anything," she looks at him, sweat glistening across her brow and fine hairs sticking to her skin.

"No, you're definitely something," he growls.  

For a moment his attention is drawn to a hateful burning in his forearm.  The pain is brief, thrilling, and just distracting enough that it pushes him over the edge, his hips pressing hard against hers and he spills inside of her with a loud shout.  Hermione uses this momentary lapse to twist her wrists out of his grip and push hard against his shoulders.  Rabastan lets her and soon he's lying on his back and her mouth is around his softening cock, stirring it to attention once more.

It's possible she's just trying to avoid the subject, but with a swipe of her tongue his questions are starting to not matter as much.

***

**1 November, 1981 // 1 November, 2006**

He is gone when Hermione wakes.  Of course he is.  Perhaps she thought she might change the outcome, but there is something else at play this time and it is stronger than the temptation of sex no matter how good.  Reaching up, she tugs at the one silk cord that still binds her left wrist to the bedpost.  She flexes her fingers, the tips pricking at the rush of blood now flowing through them more freely.

Soon she is dressed and with wand in hand, she levitates the heavy furniture out of the way.  The anti-curse she carves into the floorboards should hold up over the years.  She's been practicing it since she'd started in the department and once the final runes are set, she returns everything to their original places.

The Lestrange house has been killing Aurors and Unspeakables for years.  It's the last house left to dismantle of the old regime.

Hermione looks around the room and makes sure she has everything before slipping out into the early evening.

Reaching inside of her jumper, she pulls out the necklace.  The timeturner is old and the only one that survived the scuffle in the Department of Mysteries before Sirius was killed.  Shaped differently than the one she'd used in third year and not once had there been any question about it during the hours she'd spent in the Lestrange household.  Why would there be?  No one but the Department of Mysteries knows of its existence and what it is capable of doing.  The turns are years instead of hours.   It can move her backwards to its creation or forwards to the last minute she experienced in her lifetime.

And she, like other Unspeakables, has been tasked to make little dents in history.

Hermione twists the necklace and after a dizzying whirl of events, she appears in the Department of Mysteries just as her previous self disappears.

"Unspeakable Granger.  Is it done?" Twickenham asks, holding out his hand for the necklace.

"Lestrange invited me into the home easily enough," she reports.  "Once I was across the wards, dismantling the death curses was simple.  The Aurors should have no trouble razing the house."

"You made no attachments?"

Hermione closes her eyes briefly.  Images flash through her memory of Rabastan's face buried between her legs, his tongue flicking across her clit until she screamed, his twisted surprise at the intensity of his own orgasms.  She lets out a breath and shakes her head.  She is a professional and there are never any attachments.  Not with any of her missions to the past.

Hours later, and only because she is Hermione Granger with enough celebrity that no one questions when she shows up, she is standing at a heavy door to a cell.  The Dementors no longer guard Azkaban prison, but the building is still as cold and unfeeling as if they did.  She directs the guard to unlock the door.

His eyes are familiar.  Unchanged over the years that he has experienced.  At first he doesn't speak.  She wouldn't expect him to and she wonders if he even recognizes her.

But then.  Then there's that glimmer and she can see the whites of his eyes, they're so wide.

"You."

"Me."

Hermione has never forgiven the Lestranges for what they did or who they were.  Not when she sees the sadness in Neville's eyes every time he comes back from visiting his mum and dad.  These monsters, their souls are marked with so much death and pain.  Rabastan watches her, a snarl curled on his lips as all the pieces start to fall into place.  She's had a hand in his demise and he knows it.

"Now you know my secret," she says from the door, the security wards separating them.

As she leaves Azkaban prison, she can hear him far above her.  She'd told him outside the Leaky Cauldron to remember her name.  That she suspected he would be screaming it at some point.  Perhaps it is a little late and many years have since passed, but he is certainly screaming it now.


End file.
